


only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness

by Stacicity



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, brief mention of aromantic Sasha James, in which two characters meet and deserve better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:20:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29474601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stacicity/pseuds/Stacicity
Summary: “You’re going to want to see this,” Tim sets his hands against the back of her computer chair to pull her out from the desk and starts to wheel her down the corridor, post-it and pen still in-hand.“I- what? Tim? What’s going-”“Big Boss Sims is having a show-down with this Youtuber who’s come in to give a statement, it’s excellent watching. Proper cage match stuff,” Tim explains cheerfully.
Relationships: Melanie King/Georgie Barker (mentioned), Sasha James/Melanie King, Sasha James/Tim Stoker (unrequited)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 57





	only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness

**Author's Note:**

> This started as something light-hearted and ended in peak projection hours I don't know what more to tell you. The title is from Henry Longfellow's _Tales of a Wayside Inn_

“Sash! Sash Sash _Sasha_ -” Tim rounds the corner so fast that his shoes slip against the old carpet, worn nearly-smooth by decades of footprints, and he whips his hand out to catch himself against the edge of Sasha’s desk, landing half-sprawled against her chair. 

“Afternoon,” she replies, bemused, reaching out to rescue a stack of post-its from under his palm and scribbling herself a note ( _follow up: R Sadana, St Mary’s)._ “Everything alright?” 

“You’re going to want to see this,” Tim sets his hands against the back of her computer chair to pull her out from the desk and starts to wheel her down the corridor, post-it and pen still in-hand.

“I- what? _Tim_? What’s going-”

“Big Boss Sims is having a show-down with this youtuber who’s come in to give a statement, it’s _excellent_ watching. Proper cage match stuff,” Tim explains cheerfully, swerving to avoid Olly from HR who gives them a long, hard look. 

Probably merited, to be fair to him. She’s just taken a few days off for undisclosed reasons, Martin is (unofficially) living in the Archives and failing to be _at all_ subtle about it, there’s every reason for HR to be a bit suspicious of them even without Tim starting an impromptu rolling-chair derby in the thin corridor leading to Jon’s office. 

“Right, okay, so you want me to listen in at the door to Jon bickering with a statement-giver?” 

“You won’t need to listen at the door, they’re both being _pretty_ pointed, and our fearful leader-”

“Tim-”

“The Crypt-Keeper formerly known as Jon-”

“ _Tim_ -”

“He’s pulling out the big guns, sarcasm with both barrels. Like Jeeves but angry. _Mzzz_ King,” Tim buzzes the _s_ against his teeth gleefully, pulling Sasha’s chair to a halt just outside Jon’s office. Sure enough, Sasha can hear clipped syllables, Jon doing that _thing_ he does with his voice, pulling each syllable taut like clingfilm between a doorframe and waiting to trip someone up on their own poor word-choice. 

“Huh,” Sasha says softly as Tim drapes himself over the back of her chair. “What’s her statement about?” 

“Not sure. I only caught the first little bit before I came to get you - something about a hospital? Her channel’s fun, though-” Tim tugs his phone out of his pocket, showing Sasha a series of videos, _Ghost Hunt UK_. “Definitely not the sort of academia Jon pays any attention to. Honestly, it’s two steps from a BuzzFeed article. An old woman died in this mansion twenty years ago, what happens next will _blow your tits clean off_.” 

“Right.” There are lots of ways of talking to Tim. Sometimes it’s fun sparring with him, trading references and quips. Today- well. Today, Sasha is a few days on from killing a worm-man and having someone - _something_ \- put its hand straight into her shoulder, so she’s defaulting to Option B, tuning out the bulk of what he says and picking out the relevant bits. “What got them started?” 

“She called us paranormal investigators.” 

“Ah.” Sasha winces. “Yeah, okay.”

“And she complained about the equipment, and you know what Jon’s like about that.” 

Sasha rolls her eyes. It’d be the easiest thing in the world to laugh off those complaints, to go ‘yeah, it is a bit weird, but it’s the best we can do’ and let the matter go, but instead Jon doubles down on it _every time_. Like the statement-givers are being the rude ones for bringing up the weirdness of their archaic tape-recorders in the first place. 

Personally, Sasha’s glad that they’re on the tape-recorders. They’re easy to label and file into separate physical boxes (as opposed to spending all week explaining the shared drive filing system to everybody _yet again_ ) and it means that they’re not afflicted with Tim ‘remixing’ statements with GarageBand. 

And maybe it helps that she’s used to them from Gertrude’s day. 

“Right, right. Bit of bickering, then, got it. God. A Youtuber?” 

“Yep. Look-” Tim plays one of the videos, a quick and dirty little intro full of swooping text and quickfire images (seismographs, temperature dials, grainy surveillance feed) soon replaced with the words _Ghost Hunt UK_ in swooping green text, and then two people on the screen. 

_Hi, and welcome back to another episode of Ghost Hunt UK. I’m Melanie King, joined as always by my intrepid co-host Andy Caine, and today we’re going to be taking you through the history of the Maunsell Forts in the Thames Estuary-_

It’s not exactly the sort of video that Sasha goes for in her spare time. A bit too flashy, a bit too much night-vision creeping around and not enough due diligence, but then that’s- well, exactly the sort of thing that Jon would say, wouldn’t it. What’s more, Melanie is an engaging co-host; Sasha grins as she watches her negotiate with a boatman in Whitstable harbour, gaining them all passage to the abandoned towers in the middle of the night by wheedling, cajoling and apparently downright baffling their unwitting chauffeur.

If she hadn’t just had her own spooky encounter in a graveyard, it might have been quite entertaining. 

“Huh. Maybe we’ll be following up ghosts, next.” 

“It’d make a change from Marto haunting the Archives,” Tim replies. “She gave us some video of whatever it was she apparently saw, but even she admitted it was probably useless.”

“I’ll have a look. We might be able to recover something,” 

“Sure, sure.” There’s a few moments of silence. Tim looks down at Sasha, blinking. “What?” 

“Let go of my chair, Tim.” 

“Oh.” Tim straightens up and Sasha rolls her eyes, standing up as well so she can wheel her chair away properly. 

“D’you want popcorn or something?” she calls over her shoulder and Tim laughs, shushing her frantically and waving her away. 

Back at her desk, Sasha digs around in her emails until she finds the file. It’s not the first piece of grainy, static-filled footage she’s strained her eyes over for the Institute and it definitely won’t be the last, but for some reason she finds herself looking closer. Perhaps she can discern something in the static. Perhaps there’s a shadow, a glimpse, perhaps if she toys with the settings she’ll find something outside of the night-vision filter worthwhile—

It’s not that she’s particularly invested in whatever this is, in whatever Melanie’s saying happened to her. Maybe it’s just the empathy of having recently encountered something unbelievable herself. If she’d filmed Michael, would she have got anything useful out of it? If Jon didn’t already know her and trust her, perhaps it would be her standing in his office trying to plead her case without being summarily dismissed. 

Not that she _blames_ Jon for dismissing people. She doesn’t, not at all—the Institute does strange things to people, and as much as Sasha has encountered things she can’t explain (late nights in Storage, odd quirks in Research) she’s also pretty sure that most people are just exaggerating. Everyone in Storage has a story about an artefact that reached out to them with ghostly fingers or ectoplasmic chains or mind-bending colours. Most people use it as an excuse to get a couple days off that just happen to fall at the same time as Glastonbury, or their summer holidays, or when their mum’s coming to stay. 

It’s one of the many reasons Sasha didn’t like working there. She doesn’t like not being able to believe the people around her. At least here she knows that Jon won’t lie to her, that Martin and Tim won’t lie to her, because it’s not in any of their best interests. She can trust them, and that’s a foundation to work from when they look at the statements. 

Her shoulder aches. She realises that she’s rubbing it absently and drops her hand as if burned, trying very hard not to think about needle-sharp fingers sliding through the layers of skin and muscle to pull a worm from her body. She can remember the way it was wriggling, furious at having been taken from the flesh on which it fed, determined to get back, hungrily and maliciously _alive_. 

Back to the screen. In between the crackling whine of static and distorted sounds of footsteps Sasha can hear odd little gasps, what she assumes are Melanie’s panting breaths as she seeks out whatever it is that’s got her so frightened and—oh, _there_. 

There it is. One frame. For a split-second, the pixels arrange themselves into something coherent, and Sasha narrows her eyes to look at it properly. There’s a woman, short and dark-haired, kneeling on the floor, and in front of her, a figure that looks….tall. Much taller. For a moment Sasha recoils, thinking she’s looking at Michael, but—no, the hands aren’t right. It’s pointing. Its feet don’t touch the ground. 

There’s a slam behind her and Sasha jumps, startled, twisting to see Melanie King storming away from Jon’s office with a look of thunder on her face, hands clenched into fists at her side. It looks like she’s opened the door hard enough that Tim’s only narrowly avoided being smacked in the nose by it and is trying very hard to look as if he’d actually been engrossed in the notice board by Jon’s office door. Martin’s put up a calendar to make sure they all know when it’s everyone’s birthday. 

“Um-” Sasha says as Melanie walks past her desk, immediately loathing herself for it. _Um_ , for fuck’s sake. Come on, Sasha. “Melanie?” she calls instead, loud enough to catch Melanie’s attention and make her spin almost violently on her heel. 

“ _What?_ ” Melanie snaps. Sasha finds herself slipping into what Tim calls her _Gertrude-lite_ face, the sort of face she pulls when she needs to get access to a set of records _now,_ actually, Nivetha, not in three to five working days thanks _very_ much. 

“Sorry,” she says tightly. “You were friendlier in your videos.” 

Melanie flushes, opening her mouth to say something else before she catches sight of Sasha’s screen and takes a deep breath in instead, pushing her hair back from her face in what seems like a nervous habit. She’s got great hair, Sasha has to give her that, buzzed short on one side with bright purple curls spilling over her face on the other. She looks—striking. Impressive. Dangerous. 

“That’s- that’s my footage?” Melanie asks and Sasha nods, slipping her glasses off to clean them on her shirt, looking away. Diffusing the tension. 

“That’s right. I’ve found a frame that’s, er. Visible. Just wanted to check that it matches what you remember.” 

“Right.” Melanie takes another deep breath. “Right. Okay. Actually, do you mind if I sit down?” 

“Be my guest. That chair’s free.” Sasha nods to Tim’s and Melanie grabs it to pull it up to Sasha’s desk, flopping down heavily and picking at a loose thread on her shorts. They look distinctly homemade, high-waisted black jeans cut up with scissors, the sort of thing Sasha used to wear at uni. They suit her. 

“You alright?” Sasha asks lightly and Melanie makes a noncommittal noise, looking up from her shorts. 

“I’m fine. Sorry I snapped at you. He’s just- _God_. I don’t know how you put up with him.” 

“Jon?” Sasha considers the tactful way to proceed, commiseration versus professionalism. “I think he’s...we’ve had quite a few timewasters lately.”

“Good for you,” Melanie replies acidly. “Doesn’t give him an excuse to be a condescending prick.” 

“Fair enough.” 

“And I’m _not_ a timewaster.” 

“I know.” 

“And I- what do you mean you _know_?” Melanie folds her arms, all sharpness again, and Sasha laughs. 

“I mean I believe you.” 

“Oh.” Another pause. Melanie pulls her fingers through her hair again and then rubs a hand over her face, sighing heavily. “ _Why_?” 

“What do you mean _why_?” 

“I mean...I mean that _I_ wouldn’t,” Melanie admits quietly. “I do this for a living, chasing up ghost stories, and this one isn’t even a very _good_ one. I think that’s almost what’s more annoying about it. It’s like... if I were going to see something awful and traumatic and creepy the least I’d hope for would be that it’d make good fodder for a video but it’s not, it’s just... _crap_.” 

Sasha nods. She can still feel the heavy weight of a fire extinguisher in her arms, the hammering of her heart in her chest, in her _throat_. She can still remember the grey and sagging skin of the thing that was once Timothy Hodge, pulled loose from his skull where worms had made a home in him. 

“You’d be surprised,” she says eventually, “how ordinary some of the statements we get are. I mean some of them are about the sky eating people or demonic possession or actual murder but some of them are just...bad dreams. In a weird sort of way they’re the ones I think are more believable. The subconscious is a funny thing. I think people _know_ when something’s wrong, deep down, even if they can’t find words for it or something to point at, they just—they _know_.” 

Melanie’s giving her an odd look. Sasha swallows hard and looks back to the computer. 

“Right. This frame. Is it what you remember?” 

Melanie peers closer, chewing her lower lip as she examines the grainy picture on the screen. “That’s Sarah,” she says, pointing at the kneeling woman. “I—I don’t remember seeing the other person, though. Are they _floating_?” 

“Looks like it.” 

“I don’t remember seeing them at all. But I think at one point Sarah was thrown nearly across the room, so maybe this is who did it. I can’t...is there any way you can zoom in on Sarah’s arm?” 

“I can try,” Sasha replies, though she doubts it’ll reveal anything. The footage is already so grainy and uncertain that zooming in just confuses things, blurring Sarah’s arm until it’s barely distinguishable from the wall behind it. Melanie stares intently at it anyway before looking aside, her expression faintly nauseous. 

“That’s, um—that’s all you found?” 

“Yes. Are you okay?” 

She isn’t. It’s patently obvious that she isn’t, but the moment the words leave Sasha’s mouth Melanie straightens, firming her jaw and putting her shoulders back and giving her a hard stare. 

“I’m fine. So what happens now?” 

“Well, we look into it,” Sasha replies, falling easily back into the spiel they give all the statement-givers. “We’ll look into anything auxiliary from other sources that might corroborate it - CCTV, police reports, interviews from other witnesses etcetera - and if we need any other details from you, we’ll be in touch.” 

“Mmhm.” Melanie drums her fingers on the desk. “And what if you do find something?” 

“That sort of depends on what it is.” 

“Right.” Melanie rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I know. You’re not investigators. You’re _scholars_. God, I don’t even know why I came here. Suppose I just wanted someone to listen, but it’s just pointless, isn’t it? You’ll do what I do for my job, you’ll look into what happened, except you won’t even slap a commentary on it and turn it into a video! It’ll just...sit here. My statement, I mean. At least it won’t have a Hello Fresh advert in front of it.” 

“Elias is looking into new funding options,” Sasha puts in and Melanie tips forward and puts her face in her hands with a groan. With her doubled over Sasha can see Tim leaning against Martin’s desk and wiggling his eyebrows as if he’s trying to power a nuclear generator. Sasha throws a pen at him and he catches it neatly, smiling at her like all his birthdays have come at once. 

“Thanks!” he chirps and Melanie looks up, staring between them with patent confusion. Sasha shakes her head. 

“Ignore him.” 

“Charming!” 

“No, seriously, ignore him.” Sasha sighs. “Look, we’ll—let me take your contact details, Melanie, okay?” 

“Okay.” Melanie gives Sasha another strange look and then, quite suddenly, she smiles. “I never got your name, by the way?” 

“Oh! Sasha.” 

“Hi, Sasha.” Melanie’s hand is cool and dry in Sasha’s, black nail polish on her fingers with tiny little sparkles embedded in it. Sasha looks down at her own unpainted nails and wonders when the collection of rainbow polishes in her room became such a spectrum of beiges and pinks, the occasional red thrown in for nights out. 

It’s not like she’s especially boring, she doesn’t think. She just sort of...fell from university into academia. Her skirts got more sensible, her heels turned to loafers. She’s not even in her mid-thirties for God’s sake, she’s probably five years older than Melanie _at most_ but she feels—

“You never told me,” Melanie murmurs, cutting into Sasha’s thoughts and making her jump. 

“Told you what?” 

“Why you believe me.” 

“Oh.” Sasha summons up every ounce of grit she has, takes a deep breath, and gives Melanie a smile. “I’ll, um. Tell you over a drink, if you like? Or a coffee, whatever you want.” 

For a moment Melanie looks taken aback, the sort of rabbit-in-the-headlights look that makes Sasha feel sick to her stomach, already starting to apologise. But then she smiles back. 

“Yeah. Okay, yeah, a drink sounds...nice, actually. Thanks, Sasha.” 

She leaves, and Tim takes Sasha (wheely chair and all) around sixteen victory laps of the Archives. 

* * * *

Sasha feels ridiculous suggesting a wine bar at first, like she’s playing at being sophisticated, trying to impress, but Melanie’s surprisingly enthusiastic about the idea. The little place they end up in Holborn is _achingly_ cool, all small plates and handwritten blackboards featuring items like boudin noir and prune ketchup, medlar jelly and pomegranate molasses. Like reading another menu in another language. 

“So,” Melanie says, beaming, as soon as she slides into the chair opposite Sasha. “I’ve got a friend who’s a food blogger, and she’s been recommending this place to me for ages, but if you’re in the area another time then the restaurant over the road is an absolute institution. Like an Italian restaurant straight out of the seventies, you know? Pepper grinders as tall as you are, and sometimes the owner will come in and play the piano, and you _have_ to get the spaghetti al cartoccio - it’s almost a parody of itself at this point, but it’s amazing.” 

“Is this where I find out you’re a foodie?” Sasha asks, amused, running her finger down the wine list and wondering if she actually has an opinion on whether she prefers the Loire valley or the Rhone valley for wines or whether she’s just swayed by the price next to them. 

“A bit,” Melanie concedes, shrugging. “Mainly I just like trying new things, I think. What about you?” 

“I think I know more about wine than I do about food, to be honest,” Sasha says. “So you can tackle the menu and I’ll do the wine list?” 

“Oh, thank God. I was going to just pick whatever was second cheapest and hope that’d do.” 

“Well, it might still be the second cheapest, but I’ll see what I can do. Red or white?” 

“Red,” Melanie says decisively, and Sasha smiles. Red it is. She flips the menu and looks for Languedoc-Roussillon instead. 

When she’s not spitting barbed-wire words at Jonathan Sims, Melanie is easy, chatty company. She doesn’t seem to take herself too seriously, she commiserates about the strangeness of moving to London from elsewhere (Southampton for Sasha, Manchester for Melanie), her hands flutter when she talks. Sasha can see why she has a following online; her enthusiasm is infectious, yes, but underneath it there’s a focus, a determination to get to the root of any story. She doesn’t answer many questions about herself. She orders oysters because Sasha says she’s never had one. 

Something about her is just...electric. Sasha plans to say as much but when they’re on their second bottle Melanie beats her to the punch, eyeing Sasha over the rim of her glass with a smile. 

“What?” Sasha laughs, reaching for the bottle, and Melanie shrugs. 

“Just can’t believe you asked me out for a drink.” 

Truth be told, Sasha doesn’t know how to react to that. She’s halfway through frowning when Melanie continues, resting her chin on her hand with a wistful little sigh. 

“I mean, you just seem...God, I don’t know. It’s not just that you were the only person in that whole place that seemed to want to take me in any way seriously, but you’re just so confident? _Elegant_ , I mean. You look like you’ve got it all sorted out.” 

Sasha tries very, very hard not to laugh in Melanie’s face, and takes a sip of wine instead. “Sensible shoes will do that for a girl.” 

“What’s wrong with my shoes?” Melanie tuts, mock-affronted. 

“Nothing, they’re brilliant,” Sasha grins. “They suit you. I just think if I turned up in Doc Martens tomorrow I might get some looks. Doc Martens and cardis don’t mix.” 

“I think you’d look great in them. So, what, you’re saying you’re too grown-up now?” 

“I’m saying academia has a way of, er. Aging people, if you let it.” 

“I know a few academics with Doc Martens, hand on heart.” 

Sasha doesn’t doubt it. Academia and staid aesthetics don’t go together. There’s no reason for her to have ended up with as many knee-length skirts and tidy M&S jumpers as she has, it’s just...well, it’s _ambition_ really, isn’t it? The wardrobe of an ambitious academic isn’t power-suiting and Louboutins. And she wants, she’s _always_ wanted to be taken seriously. Except now, looking at Melanie, it all feels so bizarrely childish. Like playing-pretend. 

“For what it’s worth,” Melanie puts in. “I think you’re sophisticated.” 

“That’s the wine talking.” 

Melanie smiles and shakes her head. “No, I don’t think it is. I mean, look, Sasha, I’m a _Youtuber_ for fuck’s sake. I’m not exactly the dream dinner party guest, I’m not in a position to go judging anybody.” 

“How did you get into that?” Sasha asks, curious but equally keen to deflect attention from her own recently realised insecurities. Melanie’s good enough to go with it, swirling wine around her glass. 

“I studied Law, actually. I was going to change the world. Human rights, climate policy, bringing corporations to heel, etcetera etcetera. Fell in with a group of people who were really into urban exploration, but we were in York and the most urban it gets there is a three-storey stripclub in the new part of town, but what York does have is a lot of pubs and a lot of ghost stories, so instead we used to go around collecting those. And in the holidays we used to visit other cities to check out _their_ ghosts, and one of them suggested we start making videos, and—well, here we are.” 

Sasha nods slowly, thinking back to what she was doing at uni. Studying, mainly. A bit of amateur theatre. Nights out, sure, but not running around looking for ghosts. 

“Anyway,” Melanie continues, “it’s alright. I’ve met some great people doing it, it’s a good crowd on the whole, just, er. Competitive. You sort of have to fight to be noticed, but you can’t sensationalise _too_ much because then all the people who actually believe it start thinking you’re not serious.” 

“Do you actually believe it?” Sasha asks, and Melanie looks away. 

“I didn’t think I did. Now, I’m- I’m not so sure.” 

“I know the feeling,” Sasha says, and Melanie raises her eyebrows. 

“Do you? Go on, how many statement-givers do you _actually_ believe? How many have you read where you’ve thought I bet that _did_ happen?” 

Sasha sips her wine again and considers. “A handful. I’m not saying I’m going around seeing monsters around every corner, but I believe some of them. Some of the credible ones.” One very credible one. 

“Mmhm.” Melanie’s watching her very closely. Sasha meets her eyes. “Why do you keep touching your shoulder?” 

Sasha drops her hand rapidly and puts her glass down, coughing. She could change the subject. But she gets what Melanie meant when she said she just wanted someone to listen to her, and it’s not like Melanie can laugh at her for believing in something supernatural, can she? It’s probably grossly unprofessional. It’s probably the sort of thing she’s not supposed to do, but so’s going out for a drink with a smart, sharp statement-giver with purple hair and a wicked grin, and here she is. 

“That,” she says slowly, “is a conversation that’s going to need another bottle of wine.” 

* * * *

Melanie’s flat is in Maida Vale, the other side of London from Sasha. It’s going to be something she regrets the next morning she’s sure, but with Melanie’s hand on her hip, her waist, her neck, she can’t really find it in her to mind. 

Melanie’s shorter without her Doc Martens on, but the same is true of Sasha and her heels, and Melanie makes up for it by pushing onto her tiptoes and wrapping her arms around Sasha’s neck. She tastes like wine, like the almonds from the panna cotta they’d shared at the end of the meal, the heartstoppingly strong espresso after it. Bitter and sweet and sophisticated, all at once. 

“Sorry,” Melanie says as she’s backing Sasha onto the sofa, “my flat’s a mess.” 

“I’m not looking at your flat,” Sasha laughs, which is true, mainly because everything’s gone a bit fuzzy and lovely, and the living room has blackout curtains (presumably for when Melanie’s filming) and soft blue lights and Sasha isn’t looking at anything except Melanie lit up in blue, silhouetted like something out of a dream. 

When Melanie slips Sasha’s dress from her shoulders she’s careful over the bandage on her shoulder, layering kisses over her sternum, biting at her collarbone until Sasha gasps and throws her head back and remembers being at uni and drunk at a friend’s house and feeling just like this—

“Melanie,” she breathes, reaching down to tangle her fingers against Melanie’s curls (almost black under the blue lights) and arching her back as Melanie curls her fingers against the waistband of her tights, working them down without ripping them (there’s a girl with care, a girl who cares about how someone might get home the next morning, not like _some_ people-)

“Mm?” Melanie puts her palms against Sasha’s thighs. She’s kneeling on the floor next to the sofa Sasha’s sprawled upon and she turns her head, pressing a kiss to Sasha’s knee and leaving a lipstick mark that makes something in Sasha’s stomach flip, giddy and delighted. “Go on. Is it important?” 

“Yeah,” Sasha beams at her, feeling alive, lit up, carefree in a way she hasn’t in _months_. “It’s about Hello Fresh.” 

Melanie throws her head back and laughs, and then tips her head forward and steals Sasha’s breath all over again, the way she has all evening, the sparkles on her nails glowing as she digs them into Sasha’s leg to make her groan. 

For weeks, now, things have felt like they’re going on forever, the days blurring into one. For the first time, Sasha enjoys it, the interminable stretch of time, any worries about tube times and early starts melting away with each kiss, each touch. 

Melanie has a freckle on her hip, and she bites Sasha’s lips when she kisses her, and she is greedily, beautifully _alive_. Sasha curls two fingers, three, into her (turns out you don’t lose the knack, not really, even if she’s out of practice) and watches Melanie grip the sheets and arch beneath her, and then she reassures herself that she has _always_ been good at the things she’s worked hard at. She sets to work. 

* * * *

The sky outside of Melanie’s bedroom window is lit up orange with the streetlights. Sasha lies in bed, staring at it through a crack in the curtains, feeling Melanie tracing patterns on her stomach. 

“I used to hate that,” she murmurs, and feels Melanie lift up her head. 

“This? Sorry.” 

“No, no—that’s quite nice, actually. The light, I mean. I used to wake up at three in the morning after I just moved here and look outside and find it creepy that at three in the morning it would be _light_ outside. All orange.” 

“Mm.” Melanie puts her head back down. “I hated the sirens. Reminded me that there was always something going wrong somewhere.” 

“Not here,” Sasha says softly, and Melanie laughs. 

“Aw. Sap.” 

Sasha’s smile freezes on her face and then she shakes her head. “Not really.” 

“No?” Melanie makes a contemplative little noise. “Even after a night of wine and oysters?” 

“Even then,” Sasha says softly, quietly dreading the response—the misunderstandings, the confusion, the _oh, you haven’t met the right person_. Melanie just turns her head and presses a kiss to her shoulder, fond and soft. 

“Probably for the best. I’ve got one embarrassing gay crush already, I don’t need another one. And the big flamboyant guy from your office seems pretty taken with you.” 

Sasha sighs, closing her eyes and remembering nights spent at Tim’s, the warmth and comfort of being held by someone she trusts absolutely, the dread of knowing that she isn’t what he wants, won’t _be_ what he wants. And still he wants it. Doesn’t say it, doesn’t _do_ anything, but it’s written in each gesture and each word and every inside joke. Just her luck to get a best friend she’d do anything for and have the entire thing be knotted up in guilt. 

“Who’s your crush on?” she asks instead, and Melanie laughs. 

“Oh, it’s—yeah, it doesn’t matter. Just someone I met through work. She’s pretty amazing.” 

“Mm? Doc Martens and all?” Sasha teases, and Melanie grins. 

“She’s probably a happy medium between us, to be honest. Jeans and t-shirt, ridiculously stable, lovely cat. You know. Normal.” 

“Normal?” Sasha makes a face. “Sounds fake, but okay.” 

“Yeah.” Melanie sounds unaccountably wistful. Sasha can feel her eyelashes brushing her shoulder as she closes her eyes. “Yeah.” 

* * * *

Afterwards Sasha gets up to retrieve her clothes, following the breadcrumb trail from the bed all the way to the front door and reaching down to grab her bra and put it on with a sigh. 

“Sure you don’t want to stay the night?” Melanie asks, and Sasha shakes her head. 

“I’d only wake you up tomorrow morning. I’d have to disappear pretty early to get home and change.” 

“I might be an early riser,” Melanie smiles, and then tilts her head. “Huh. I’ve never seen anyone put a bra on like that outside of TV shows.” 

“What?” Sasha blinks, perturbed, frozen in place, and Melanie laughs out loud. 

“It’s not a bad thing! I’ve just always done it up at the front and-” she mimes swivelling a bra around. “See? Sophisticated. You even put on bras properly.” 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“Mmhm.” Melanie lingers by the front door, duvet wrapped around her shoulders, watching Sasha pull on her tights and comb her fingers through her hair. “Do me a favour?” 

“What?” 

“Tell that Sims bloke he’s a prick.” 

“Nope,” Sasha replies, popping the _p_. “Tell him yourself.” 

“Fat chance. I’m not going back there anytime soon.” 

“Well. I’ll call you,” Sasha promises. “We can go to that Italian place and you can order the—what was it?” 

“Spaghetti al cartoccio.” Melanie beams at her. “Sure. I’ll let you handle the wine list, see if I can’t get some other recommendations. Might as well make the most of living in London, eh?” 

“Might as well.” Melanie’s lips taste of mint from her toothpaste, the lingering almost-sweet tang of mouthwash. Sasha’s pretty sure she knows where she can still get a train this time of night. “See you later.” 

Sasha leaves, heading down the street with a soft tapping of heels into the orange and siren-filled light of a new morning. Plenty more of those to come, she’s sure. She hopes that some of them start like this. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos & comments soothe my aching soul. [Find me on tumblr](https://ajcrawly.tumblr.com) and ask me for more restaurant recommendations in London.


End file.
